Hollow Man's Homecoming
by 50ftQueenie
Summary: You're the wrong man for the job, but there's no one else left. Language, drugs, language about drugs.
1. Chapter 1

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

There is no natural sleep these days. The rising and the setting of the sun doesn't figure into it. It's up with the blue pills and down with the yellow. When they run out- always before the man makes his rounds- then it's the booze for both.

Showers are few and far between in this place. You had longer, more gratifying showers in the army. The tub in the bathroom at the end of hall is grimy and the water is always cold.

You've thought on it for days, maybe months. It all kind of runs together during the winters up here. Outside your window it keeps snowing. The library and the bus station close, and they send the kids home from school. There's a sledding hill that you can see from your window. The kids head straight from there from school and go up and down that hill until the window kicks up and the snow makes it impossible to see.

Then everything closes up. The stoplights change over for no one. The snow wraps up your building and your neighbors come out into the hall to trade each other wine for cheese and bread and bologna. You've lost your taste for anything of it except the blues and the yellows.

This town is shit, you've come to believe, and it feels like it's a million miles from Tulsa.

* * *

><p>You figure it's time to go home- see Karen and her pack of boys. It's been years since you left them for a military transport bound for Korea. That baby of hers was afraid of you. He wouldn't take his thumb out of his mouth when Karen gathered them all around you for a picture. The baby had Karen's eyes- warm and greenish gray. Like swamp water, you used to tease her when you were kids.<p>

The next time the clouds clear up and the plows run through town, you tell Jensen- the guy who rents the next room- that you're clearing out. It's more of a courtesy than out of sentiment. He likes to think he looks after you. He had a boy that got himself shot in a bar fight.

"What you going to do when you run out of those?" He taunts you, gesturing to the half-empty bottles on your dresser. It's his way of asking you to stay and keep on being his son.

"I'm done," you tell him. "When those are gone, I'll sweat it out."

"I've heard that one before. You know those are women's pills."

"I ain't sprouted tits yet, have I? They give him to me at the VA." This used to be true. The VA cut you off a year ago. Now you get them where ever you can.

"They give to hysterical housewives."

"Do I look like a hysterical housewife to you?"

You can't imagine what a housewife would have to go nutty over, but- yes- you know there's plenty of them taking the same stuff. You think of your Ma and your little sister, Karen, running their houses like well-oiled machines. You guess you've had it harder than them. Or maybe you ain't as tough.

"How you getting there?" Jensen breaks into your thoughts.

"Hitch to Omaha, then the bus."

"And when you get there."

"I'll go to my sister's. I ain't seen her since…" You aren't exactly sure. You aren't good with time. You try to imagine how old that smallest boy should be.

"She's got a pack of boys, her and her old man," You tell Jensen.

"Then one more oughtn't make any difference," he says.

"That's what I was thinking."

* * *

><p>You hit the Laundromat before you attempt to cajole yourself a ride on the highway. Every scrap of clothing you own, which ain't much, smells like smoke and a drunk's sweat. You wake up soaked in sweat if you don't take the pills. Even with them you always feel on the edge of waking up screaming. It's not a good sleep. The pills just keep you from lurching out of it.<p>

Two Indian girls have pushed the carts and the baskets backs against the walls and the machines to clear a spot to do cartwheels. You don't recognize the language they speak to their grandmother. Closer to home and you'll start hearing Cherokee and Osage. You'll be able to catch a few words.

The older girl is the same age as Karen's oldest boy was the last time you saw them. This little girl's an athlete, just like Karen's boy. Every moment has a forceful grace. The girl turns cartwheels across the floor. She spring to her feet laughing.

"You're quite the tumbler," You say to her.

She says, "I'm a june bug."

"A june bug? In February? That can't be right."

Just to prove to you that it's possible, she cartwheels back across the floor. Right as spring rain in Oklahoma.

* * *

><p>Something is wrong. Everything is wrong when you get there.<p>

The house looks a hundred years older, but your brother-in-law hasn't aged a day since you saw him last.

You stand across the street and watch him come out of the house. He's still built like he was walking out onto the football field in '43. This isn't quite the same Darrel you remember, though. He was never this tall. Who has a growth spurt in their twenties and after three kids?

It all feels wrong. It's like being transported into some science fiction alternate universe. You felt the same way when you first hit the ground in Korea. All the plants were different. It was like Alice's Wonderland.

You man up and walk across the street. Your brother-in-law is out in the yard now looking under the hood of a car. The car- like the house- is the same except that it seems to have been struck by the same wasting disease.

You lean on the fence.

"Hey, buddy," you say. "Long time, no see."

He turns to face you. He hasn't aged a day, but his eyes are different. They ain't Darrel's eyes. They're two shades lighter. More green than blue.

He frowns at you for a second. Then those eyes widen and steps forward with his hand outstretched.

"Uncle Terry?" He says.


	2. Chapter 2

SE Hinton owns the Curtis family and The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Two-

You shake your nephew's hand- more like a paw, a ball- handler's hand. His grip is like a rock: firm and sincere. When you ask him how long's it been, though, he lowers his eyes and lets your hand go.

"You don't know, do you?" He asks.

"Don't know what?"

"When's the last time you saw Mom and Dad?"

The last time you saw Karen and Darryl, Sr. together was the last time you saw all of them- in 1952, just before you left for Korea. You were thirty-two years old and too old to be playing Army, Karen said, but what else did you have? Couldn't keep bumming around Tulsa living off the Veteran's benefits from the last war. You'd been drafted at nineteen and sent to North Africa. Spent three months sleeping on the ground in the desert. After that, you always seemed to need to keep moving like the sands that washed over you in waves during those nights.

Nothing was coming of living back in Tulsa. When the opportunity arose, you offered yourself up to the Korean conflict. You and Karen had fought about it, but she still insisted on taking that picture of you and all her boys as though she expected never to see you again. That was thirteen years ago.

Darryl, Jr. tells you before you can answer, "They're gone, Uncle Terry. It's been almost a year. They were killed…well, Dad was killed on New Year's Eve. Mom held on a couple of days, but she didn't make it."

"You old man was driving? Was he drunk?"

Darryl, Jr. seems to shiver, but he's old enough- you figure- to handle the question and to have an answer for you.

"Yeah, I'd guess he was. It was New Year's Eve."

"You by yourself then?"

"I got custody of Soda and Pony. There's a social worker comes to see us."

"How do you do for money?" You ask, hoping he doesn't take it as an offer. You don't have any yourself.

"I work. I got a roofing job. I drywall when it gets cold. I help around this gym downtown too. On weekends. Spot guys who are trying to be boxers."

He doesn't ask what you do. Maybe it's obvious. Maybe it's all over your face- pale and slick with sweat even in the February wind.

He springs back to life and pushes open the gate.

"You should come in. Shit, Uncle, it's cold. You want some coffee?"

You don't answer, just nod and follow him. The stairs to the porch creak under your weight. The paint is peeling. Your sister never would have stood for that.

* * *

><p>You knew him once as Little Darryl, but that no longer seems appropriate. You start to call him "son" like you would any young man his age who wouldn't find it condescending and punch you for it. He doesn't seem to mind it. In fact, he seems to crave it.<p>

He sits across from you at the dining room table and tells you how it happened- how your little sister and your brother-in-law died. He tells you about his brothers. Sodapop isn't in school. Ponyboy gets grades like he's some kind of professor-in-training, but he's distant and doesn't have a lot of friends since two of the guys he came up with died last fall.

"What happened there?" You ask.

"One died in a fire. He and Pony saved a bunch of kids," Darryl says. He's repeated the story a hundred times, you'd guess, but it still feels strange to him. "The other one- Pony's other buddy- got shot."

You can tell from the way he shifts his eyes that "the other one" was Darryl's friend too. He just can't bring himself to say it.

"That's a tough row to hoe," You tell him.

"Yeah, it's been rough on Pony."

You meant Darryl when you said it. He won't admit to it himself. It surprises you, then, when he lifts his head and says to you with a pleading look in his eyes:

"Where you staying, Uncle Terry?"

"Nowhere at the moment. I was just passing through. Thought I'd visit with…with y'all."

You can see where this is going, and it makes you wish for another pill. When you were his age, you were sleeping on the ground in North Africa, getting bombs dropped on you every day the weather was clear. You want this boy sitting across the table from you to man up and carry on without you. But then, you know where carrying on alone got you. Your nephew is just a kid. He's had the rug pulled out from under him. In you, he sees an adult he thinks he knows and thinks he can trust.

Darryl gets nervous when you hesitate. He offers:

"We ain't done anything with Mom and Dad's room. Soda and Pony usually sleep together. They sleep better that way."

"What kind of work is there around here?" You dare to ask. "Oil rigs?"

"I never worked on the rigs. The hours are too long, and the social worker wants me home with them in the evenings."

You've worked on the rigs a few times in the past. It is work for a younger man than you are now. Still- Darryl's right- the hours are long. You could help these boys out some with the bills, but limit your time in the house where you might have to act like a parent.

"I'll look around today," you tell him. "See if I can find an opening. I'll let you know tonight if I've found anything. Don't go fluffing the pillows or nothing until I have something where's I can earn my keep."

He nods, but then he says, "Okay. Dinner's at six. We're having chicken. It's Pony's night to cook, so it's safe to eat."

And you know that you're stuck. You shake his hand again, tell him it's good to see him. You leave your bag behind when you leave the house to look for work. Your pills are inside, and it makes your palms sweat to think of being separated from them all afternoon.

* * *

><p>It's all too easy: you have a job on a rig the instant you flash your military ID and tell the man behind the desk at Harris Oil that nope, you haven't been to 'Nam.<p>

"Them boys come back crazy," he explains and you keep quiet. "We ain't hiring from that crowd. It's not even a real war."

You breathe deep, stare at the WPA oil painting on the wall behind him, and don't interject that Korea wasn't a real war either, but it sure felt that way. You fought the fascists and that's good enough for the man behind the desk.

"Where were you stationed?" He asks.

"All over hell. Sort of made a career out of it." A career with a nine year break in the middle, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Well, it will be good to have a man on the crew who knows discipline."

You nod and hold back a smile. You had a buddy who used to say that the Army was like the Boy Scouts except the Boy Scouts had adult leadership. Discipline and following it have never been your strong suits.

You leave him your social security number and the address to Karen's house. You tell him you don't have a phone yet. He says not to worry, just be back at 6:30 on Monday morning. The truck out to the rigs leaves at 6:30 sharp.

When you turn to the leave the office, it's still light outside. It isn't anywhere near dinnertime with your nephews. You aren't ready. Instead of heading back, you get on a bus that's going over the bridge to the south side of town to visit someone else you used to know.

* * *

><p>an: The line about the Army and Boy Scouts is something I heard a million times from my Grandpa. It was too good not to steal from him.


	3. Chapter 3

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders and the Curtis family.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Three-

She's the only person you ever knew personally who had a guest house, and the guest house was her studio to boot.

Her parents recognized her talents early on and let her use the guest house to paint. Sometimes they let her stay out there all night, and sometimes she let you stay with her. That was in 1952.

You get off the bus three blocks away. Unlike your sister's neighborhood- your family's old neighborhood- on the other side of town, the south side looks the same as you remember it from before. The lawns are neat and the shrubs are pruned. The houses look like they were built within the past week.

Her house- really Maryanne Boardman's parent's house- has pillars on the front like Tara. The driveway curves up to the front door. The backyard, with its guest house and pool, are shielded from the street by a high, white fence. A large oak tree grows on the street-side of the fence, but its branches reach out over the back yard. You used to climb it to get to Maryanne's studio. This will be the first time you've ever gone to her front door.

The woman who answers the door is dressed in a starched, green uniform. You don't recognize each other personally, but you recognize one another as each other's people. She is suspicious of your being here. She purses her lips.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Maryanne."

"Mrs. Tyler doesn't live here anymore."

Mrs. Tyler. She's married and moved away. Why did you think it would be any different?

"I'm an old friend," you tell the maid. "Can you tell me how I can get ahold of her?"

"She don't live in Tulsa anymore, sir. She lives with her family in Chicago."

Chicago gets cold in the winter. You've been there. You imagine Maryanne standing of the edge of that endless lake in a coat with a fur collar that she's turned up against the wind.

Again, you ask the maid, "Can you tell me how I might get ahold of her? I won't be in town for very long."

"I can't just give you her address and phone, sir. Why don't I take yours? If we hear from her, we'll pass it along."

She says _if we hear from her_ like it's something that isn't certain. Maryanne didn't write you after you re-enlisted. Like your sister, she said it was a stupid idea. She couldn't take the idea of you going off to Korea and maybe getting yourself killed. Karen had to stick it out and wonder because she was your sister. Maryanne cut you loose.

"Yeah," You say to the maid, shuffling your feet. "Tell her Terry's in town. Tell her I'm staying at my sister's."

Behind the maid, in the hall, you recognize a large painting as one of Maryanne's. It was one that she never liked, but that her mother deemed appropriate for public consumption. It wasn't Maryanne's style. The style she was developing in 1952 was more abstract. The colors were deeper, the images less clear. The painting in the hall is pastoral. You can see the hills above Tulsa and the oil rigs- probably rigs that her father owned and the same ones you'll be working on come Monday.

"Terry," the maid says. "Do you have a last name?"

Maryanne will know. You figure the maid wants to be able to tell the lady of the house so that she can run your name through her internal rotary file of names worth knowing.

"Terry Connolly. My sister was Karen Curtis. It's her house where I'm staying."

A knowing look crosses the maid's face. She's from your side of town. She knows what happened to Darryl and Karen Curtis. She knows more than you do.

"Thank you, Mr. Curtis," she says.

"Connolly," you correct her. "My sister married the Curtis."

"Yes, that's right. Thank you, Mr. Connolly."

You give her a curt nod and stuff your hands in your pockets. You walk away from the house, back towards the bus that will take you over to your side of the bridge.

* * *

><p>Darryl Junior has them waiting around the table for you- a sign that he was more confident than you that you were coming back. They're hungry and fidgeting over their food, but they all three stand up when you come in. You don't recognize the younger two except that the middle one favors your sister.<p>

He comes at you with a bounce in his step, his hand outstretched.

"Hey, Uncle Terry. I'm Sodapop. It sure has been a while. You got to tell me all about Korea. I think that's what I'm going to do…I'm going to join up when I'm old enough. Me and my buddy's been talking. We're both going to go over to Vietnam. I'd be making some good money to send back then. You got to tell Darry that for me, that I'll still be helping with the bills…"

"Soda, breathe," Darryl says.

You shake Sodapop's hand, and he drops back a little.

"Sure," You tell him. "I'll tell you about. Might not be what you want to hear, though, son."

"I can take it, Uncle Terry," he says.

It's not a question of _can he_, but more of a question of _should he have to_. You know that look in his eyes. He's made his decision, and nothing you say is going to change it. Watching him lope back to his seat at the table, you're filled with a sense of dread. He won't hear a word you have to say about it. Instead, he'll take your presence as proof that he, too, can return in one piece. You should have never come.

"You going to talk to me this time, boy?" You say to the youngest one, still standing behind his chair at the table. "Last time I seen you, you wouldn't take your thumb out of your mouth."

Ponyboy grins. He has a shy smile. He's handsome, but aloof.

"I don't suck my thumb anymore, Uncle Terry," he says.

"Don't lie," Sodapop teases him.

Ponyboy doesn't even try to argue with Sodapop. He looks back to you and rolls his eyes. Then he turns to Darry.

"Can we eat now? I got a lot of homework."

"Yeah, we can eat now. Uncle Terry, do you want to say grace?"

"No." It comes out so fast that it shocks you about as much as it does them. You stammer, "No, thank you. You're the man of the house, Darryl. You say the prayer."

He nods, and the other two bow their heads and mumble along with him. You await the _amen_ in silence.

Truth is, it's been so long since you've prayed for anything other than more pills and liquor that you wouldn't know what to ask for. What would you ask for- for these boys- that hasn't already been taken from them?

Still, they find reasons to give thanks- the food, the crumbling roof over their heads, and your return. Darryl thanks God for keeping you safe in your absence and for bringing you back home again.

You can't remember the last time you felt safe. It was probably here in this house, but things are very different now.


	4. Chapter 4

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Four-

She's coming toward you down the street looking like a ball of light. It's the fading sunlight in her hair and in the way she walks- a little bounce in her hips that makes you want to grab on.

Her red hair is tied up and there's a pencil stuck in it. She must be working somewhere- waiting tables or slinging drinks- and forgot to take it out. Or maybe she's on her way.

Whatever the case, she's headed straight for you now. She pushes the gate open, lets it fall shut behind her, and comes up the walk. At the bottom of the porch steps, she stops. She looks up at you- smoking your after-dinner cigarette and looking dumb- and frowns. Then she asks:

"Terry? Fuckin' Terry Connolly?"

You knew Bernadine in high school. She ran with your sister, and your mom hated her because she had the filthiest mouth of any girl on the North side.

"Come on up here, Bern. I'll wash out that mouth of yours."

"You couldn't take me. Give me a hug, Terry, and then let me have a cigarette. I got a shitty night ahead of me."

You meet her halfway on the stairs. She hugs you like a sister would, swings from side to side a bit, and then pulls away and snatches the cigarette right out from between your fingers.

"Where ya been?" She asks, but then she speaks again before you can open your mouth. "Forget that. What are you doing here? How long's it been?"

"A long, goddamned time. I've been all over. I did a tour in Korea, and then a tour at Leavenworth."

She's the first person you've told about that. It just slips out, but that Bernadine always had that way about her: like nothing you could get up to could be as mischievous as what she had going.

"What'd you do the time for?" She asks.

"I took a swing at my commanding officer."

"Did you make it stick?"

"Knocked him on his ass in the mud. Had to buy him a new uniform. My tour was almost up, so they shipped me back. I got to keep my benefits, but I had to sit a year for it."

She nods and stubs out the cigarette on the porch railing.

"Well, that accounts for- what- two years? What'd you do with the rest of it?"

You couldn't begin to string it all together for her into any kind of tale that would make sense. Instead you ask her:

"No way. Now you. Where's what's-his-name and that little boy you had?"

She laughs a gravely, smoker's laugh.

"What's-His-Name shall remain unnamed. We don't talk about him anymore. The boy's all grown up, or so he likes to think. The girl's almost eleven. That's why I'm here, actually…have you seen the boy?"

You shake your head. Your nephews are all in the house. No other neighborhood rug rats that you've noticed, though.

"Goddamn him," she mumbles. "He needs to get his ass home and watch his sister."

She steps past you onto the porch and leans through the door. She yells in at the boys:

"Y'all seen Keith?"

A chorus of mumbled _no_ _ma'ams_ in reply.

"Bullshit," she grumbles, closing the door and stepping back outside. "Your nephews are a bunch of lying bastards, every one of 'em."

"They didn't learn it from me," you tell her.

"When would they have?"

She starts back down the steps. At the bottom she turns again and says to you:

"If a big mouthy one named Two-Bit shows his face, tell him to get his ass home, will ya, Terry?"

"Two-Bit? Yeah, I'll do that. Will you do something for me, Bern?"

She nods, but looks wary.

"Sometime I need you to tell me what happened. No one ever told me…about Karen and Darryl. I didn't know until this morning."

"Christ, I'm awful sorry about that, Terry."

You shake your head, dismissing her pity.

"I just want you to tell me the story."

She lets her gaze drop to the ground and then she looks up at you again.

"It's exactly what you think it is," she says. "I got to go to work, but- yeah- I live in the same place. What's-His-Name got a new girl, but I got to keep the old house. Y'all come by, and we'll talk about it."

You nod and mumble a thanks. She gives you a little wave and starts off back towards the gate. You think maybe the bounce in her step has diminished some. The light from her hair has dimmed, but maybe it's just from the sun going down.

* * *

><p>You know you'll regret doing it, but something forces you to do the parental thing when you go back into the house.<p>

"Where's Bernadine's boy?" You ask your nephews. "She says you know. He's supposed to be watching his sister."

"Two-Bit cut out of school early," Ponyboy says, keeping his eyes on his book.

"I'd guess not to go to any goddamned job?"

The boy's eyes widen when you say it. There was never much cussing in the Curtis house. Your head is still outside with Bernadine and your language shows it.

"Sorry," you tell Ponyboy. "So, who's going to watch the little girl?"

Sodapop butts in: "She ain't that little, Uncle Terry. There's a neighbor lady who looks in on her."

It doesn't seem safe to you- Bernadine working at night and her little girl home alone. It's not your nephew's fault, but you feel like punishing them because their buddy's an idiot who doesn't help out his mom.

You take a breath and feel in your coat pocket for the loose yellow pill you keep there for emergencies. It's like a pacifier. It's an old one, darkened from the grease on your fingers. Sometimes, though, just feeling it and knowing it's there is enough to get you through.

"I can watch her, Uncle Terry," Ponyboy says. It's like he's speaking to you from a great distance. You're lost in your valium cocoon.

They're all looking at you now, and you realize that you've pushed it too far.

"No, that's your brother's call," you tell them, nodding at Darryl. "I'm just sayin'…don't be lying to Bernadine anymore. She asks you where…what the hell'd you call him?"

"Two-Bit?"

"Yeah, she asks you where Two-Bit is, you spill, understand?"

The younger two mumble _yes, sir_. Ponyboy goes back to his book, and Sodapop gets up and heads into the kitchen to wash dishes. Darryl folds his paper, and stands up. When he does, the floorboards beneath you shake.

"I'll go," he says.

"Nobody has to go," You tell him. Nobody has to do what you say.

"I'll just drive by, make sure that neighbor lady's home. If she ain't, I'll bring her back here. She's got to have homework she can do."

He already has his coat and his keys. He crosses the room in two quick steps. He doesn't look at you as he leaves, but you can't tell if it's because you've shamed him into looking after the girl or if you've overstepped your bounds.

As soon as he's gone, though, Sodapop abandons the dishes.

"So, tell me now, Uncle Terry- what's the Army like?"


	5. Chapter 5

SE Hinton owns the Curtis family and Two-Bit

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Five-

It hurts your head to think about it. You need a minute to corral your thoughts together, and so you gesture towards the kitchen indicating that you need something to drink. The boy puppy-dogs after you. You pull a couple of beers out of the refrigerator and hand him one. He looks at the bottle and then at you.

"I'm seventeen, Uncle Terry," he says.

Not for a minute do you believe this kid's never had a belt before. He isn't comfortable with you knowing it, though.

"You can join the Army in another year, but you can't drink for another four," you tell him. "Ain't that one of life's great ironies?"

"That's more of a paradox, Uncle Terry." Ponyboy is here too, and you wonder if you should give him a beer as well.

Instead, you pop yours open on the edge of the counter, and tell them:

"There's beautiful women in Korea, but there's beautiful women anywhere. I don't know if the Army made a loser out of me or if it just honed a skill I always had. Either way, I made a career out of losing everything."

They both stand there looking at you, puzzled. To punctuate your little speech, you take the finger-worn valium out of your pocket, pop it into your mouth, and wash it down with the beer.

Then everything seems to happen at once. The phone rings. It saves you and startles you at the same time. On the second ring, the screen door flies open and slams shut again. The house shudders as a tall, stocky boy with red hair enters.

He yells, "Phone!" at Sodapop, who is already rushed around you to answer it.

"You're supposed to be at home, Two-Bit," Ponyboy says to the visitor.

You look him up and down. You might've known. This is Bernadine's boy- built thick like a bear. He's grinning, but his eyes are weary. He knows he supposed to be home. Just doesn't give a damn.

"Uncle Terry," Soda calls, breaking your attention away from Bernadine's boy. "Phone's for you."

You're jarred by the noise and the new face and the pill starting to kick in. You take the receiver from Sodapop while still keeping one eye on Two-Bit.

"Yes. This is Terry Connelly."

"Mr. Connelly, this is Nell. From this afternoon. From Maryanne's old place."

The housekeeper's voice is more relaxed now than it was this afternoon. She sounds more like the Greenwood girl that she is.

"How can I help you?"

"I thought maybe I could help you," she says. "I can give you Miss Maryanne's…Mrs. Tyler's number, if you want it."

"Yeah. Sure."

You look around you for a pen and paper. You snap your fingers and point for Ponyboy to give you the pencil that's lying next to his homework on the coffee table. He hands it to you. You write the number down on the back of the phonebook.

"She's gone a lot," the housekeeper explains. "They travel, but they almost never come back here. If you want to talk to her, you'll have to call her."

"Thank you," you tell her. "I'll do that. I appreciate it."

She tells you to have a good evening and hangs up. You set the receiver down and tear off the piece of the phonebook where you wrote the number.

"Dang, Uncle Terry. You've only been here a day. You already got girls calling here?"

Soda winks at me, grinning.

"I don't get calls from girls. I get calls from women," you tell him and shove the number into your shirt pocket. You turn to Bernadine's son. "Your mom was by looking for you."

"Yeah, I'm headed back that way. My sister'll be alright. How do you know my mom?"

"Before your time. She and my sister were friends in school."

"Did you know my dad?"

You shake your head. "Can't say that I did."

Two-Bit shrugs. "Don't matter. We get along fine without him."

The tone in his voice says that they'll get along just fine without you, too, if you were thinking along those lines.

"So, you going to call her?" Sodapop asks. "The girl…_woman_ whose number you got?"

"It's long distance. I'll do it from a pay phone."

You walk past him, shaking your head, and something makes you reach out and clap him on the back as you pass. Some strange sign of camaraderie for you know not what. You got back to the kitchen to fetch your beer and then out the back door to smoke and stare up at the silent sky.

* * *

><p>Something startles in the alley when you let the screen door close. You watch it dart out from behind the shed and scuttle on down the street- a raccoon, judging from the way it moves.<p>

You light your cigarette and ponder calling Maryanne. Your guess is that Nell the housekeeper called Maryanne and asked permission to give the number. Maryanne told her to give the number of a house where she's never home, and had her pass on to you the line that she's never coming back here anyway. You can call, if you like, but you're not going to see her. That's what you're being told.

And yet, why even go that far? Why not just ignore you? Maryanne was never one to play games, but maybe she's learned. Maybe this is her way of twisting the knife.

Darryl Junior is whistling as he comes down the street. The Mathews girl is not in tow. The neighbor must have come through after all. Darry reaches the corner and a figure steps out of the alley from behind the shed. It was him who roused the raccoon and not you.

In the shadows, you can only see the silhouettes. The other boy is leaner in build than Darry. He's shorter, and yet his presence is menacing. Someone waiting around in the shadows for Darry must already know he couldn't take him hand-to-hand in a fight. Someone like that would come prepared.

You stub your cigarette out on the back step and strain to listen.

"You got a minute, Curtis?"

"Not really."

"Won't take more than a minute, man. Just a friendly reminder. Curly's getting out, and I'm expecting the kind of protection from you that we've been giving your little brothers."

"And I've told you that I'm happy to oblige that so long as Curly doesn't go stirring the pot. My brothers don't go looking for trouble. You brother…"

"What about him?"

"He lacks self-control."

"Shit," the stranger says. His hands are in his jacket pockets. It's a deceptively relaxed stance. He could have anything in those pockets. "We went to bat for y'all with the Socs. Have you forgotten that?"

"You were itching to be part of that rumble, Tim. I couldn't have kept you out of it if I'd wanted to."

Rumbles. Boys here still rumble. Some things never change. You haven't been in a rumble since Truman was president.

"Well, maybe you'd like it if I turned a blind eye to Ponyboy next time I see him wandering on his lonesome. I could do that pretty easily. He ain't that pretty to look at. We had agreed on equal protection, Curtis."

"I agreed to keep my eyes peeled and my ears open. I didn't agree to step in every time Curly throws a bottle at a car or pulls a gun in a liquor store."

"He knows better now."

"Does he? Did they teach him all kinds of manners in the reformatory? Have a little chat with him, will you, Tim? Make sure he understands that me and mine will have his back as long as he isn't the one starting shit."

Darry doesn't wait for a reply. He walks away from Tim. You keep an eye on Tim's hands stuffed in his pockets. Tim steps back into the darkness of the alley. You stand up as Darry reaches the porch.

"You hear all that?" He asks.

"Yep. Tell me- what that a friendly visit from a friend or an enemy?"

"A little of both. Shepard has a difficult time deciding what side of the line he wants to be on."

Darry goes up the steps and opens the door.

"Two-Bit's here," you tell him.

"Good."

"I'm going to take a walk. Clear my head a little."

Darry nods at you. His mind is somewhere else. He's thinking about this Tim character, and by now it's probably dawned on him that it's going to take a little more than air to clear your head. You wait for him to get inside. When you hear Two-Bit's voice, you start down the alley into the shadows where Tim Shepard disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

SE Hinton owns the Curtis family and Tim Shepard.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Six-

He knows he's being followed. He makes no effort to evade you. Instead, he slows his pace and gives you a chance to get closer. For a couple of blocks you follow him through the shadows and then he steps out of sight to wait.

You stop at the mouth of the alley. You know he's leaning against a fence, maybe twenty feet in. You can hear him breathing.

"You looking for a light, Mister?" He asks. He drags a match against the fence and lights his own cigarette. "I don't go for guys, if that's what you're selling."

"I ain't selling anything. I got something to tell you, and I want you to listen."

You're an adult and he's just a kid. He can crack wise and act tough until the end of time if he wants, but whatever game he's playing is just that so far as you're concerned. Rumbles, turf, North Side vs. South Side- it's all child's play compared to the things you've seen.

"So spill it," he says. "I ain't got all night."

"No, I supposed you ought to be home in bed before too long here."

Tim Shepard sniffs out a little laugh and stubs his cigarette on the fence.

"Something like that," he says.

You tell him: "I'm Darrel's uncle. Darry, and Soda', and Ponyboy's. I'm going to be staying with them for a while, and as long as I am, I don't want to see your face or hear anyone breathe your name in that house. You understand?"

"Yeah, I savvy. I understand, but it don't mean I intend to comply. Curtis and I have a deal that proceeds your coming home, old man…What are you- Mr. Curtis?"

"Connelly."

"Well, Mr. Connelly…" He pushes himself up off the fence and steps out into the center of the alley. You're sure now, even more so than when he was talking to Darry, that Tim is armed. "The thing is, I have family of my own to look out for, and I've come to the unfortunate conclusion that I can't do it on my own. So, Darrel and I have a deal: I watch out for his, he watches out for mine. It just so happens that my family members have a tendency to bring down a little more heat than his. Looking out for my little brother is…"

"Labor intensive?"

"I was going to say a pain in the ass. Still, he's a kid. Are you suggesting that Darry and Soda should just stand by and watch if they see a kid getting beat on?"

You've seen kids get shot. You've seen them wandering between the camps begging for food, the young girls prostituting themselves for a meal. This brother of Tim's taking a beating is nothing to you. Tim's leaving Ponyboy out of the equation stands out to you, though. They'll all protect him, but no one seems to expect him to jump in.

"So long as I'm here," you tell Tim, "I'll look out for my nephews. I ain't staying forever. As soon as I blow town, you can go back to playing rumble."

You haven't said it to any of the others- Darry, the boys, Bernadine- that you don't plan to stay. It's always there in the back of your head, but Tim Shepard is the only one who has been able to bring it to your lips.

"Whatever you say, man," he says, and you don't believe him for an instant. He flicks his cigarette against the fence on the opposite side of the alley. The sparks despurse and die out. Tim excuses himself with a smirk and walks away.

"Y'all better head home, old man," he calls to you. "These streets ain't safe after dark. For anyone."

You wait, though, until he's gone. Then you light your own cigarette and start back towards your sister's house.

* * *

><p>The moon is bright and its pale light makes the air seem all the more cold. You start to whistle and then stop because it makes your lungs ache.<p>

You're senses are overused and hyperaware, just like Tim Shepard's. You feel the car coming up behind you before you hear the gravel crack underneath its wheels. You smell trouble: the headlights are turned off. So is the radio. The car barely makes a sound until they hit the brakes to park it. There's a soft squeal then. The doors open and slam shut. There are footsteps.

All this time, you haven't stopped moving forward, but- like Tim Shepard- you've slowed your pace. Running would advertise fear. A chase would get their blood pumping. There's no sense in inviting any worse than what's already coming.

What's left to your imagination is what kind of weaponry these fellows prefer. You'll place your bet on fists and knives over guns. If they were packing heat, they have already shot you- or tried- from a distance and it wouldn't require three…maybe four…of them to do it.

"Hey, buddy."

It feels as though you've waited an eternity for one of them to speak. You stop walking but don't turn around. It's a way to judge a man's character: if he'll hit you before he has to look you in the eye. These boys, whoever they are, are low on character.

The first blow comes from a bottle and it hits you hard enough in the back of the head to knock you to your knees. They toss the bottle away then. It shatters against a fence. They go at you with curses and the toes of their boots. You listen for names and declarations of responsibility until you pass out.

* * *

><p>It's Two-Bit who finds you. He's on his way back from catting around. The sun is coming up. You can't bend your fingers, you're so cold.<p>

"Goddamn, old man," You hear him say. You can't see him through your swollen eyelids.

"You should see the other guy," you tell him.

"Hell, that's my line and when I use it, it's most likely a lie. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. How long you been here?"

You've pulled yourself to the edge of the alley to a sitting position against the fence. Your intention was to at least move out of the way of any oncoming cars.

"It's getting light, ain't it?" You ask Two-Bit.

"Yeah, I've been walking since last call. Maybe an hour. Shit, it's cold. Ain't you cold?"

"What do you think?" You ask him and let him hoist you to a standing position by your shoulders. You ask him if he's got a car.

"I got one. It ain't running at the moment."

"Christ. Then you don't got a car."

"Where do you want to go? You ought to go to the hospital."

"No," you tell him. "And not to the boy's house, neither."

"My mom will tear you a new asshole if she thinks you've been out fighting with the young cats."

"She can't do much worse than I've already had."

Through your swollen eyelids, you see him grin.

"Shit, I thought you knew my mom or something. Nope, she's going to rip you a new one for sure."

He slings your arm up to his shoulder and puts a hand on your back to steady you. Every step shoots pain. You aren't going to make it on any oil rig come Monday morning.

All the way to his mother's house, Two-Bit chatters at you like a bird. He's trying to keep you conscious. It works, but you don't remember a word he says by the time you reach Bernadine's.


	7. Chapter 7

SE Hinton owns Two-Bit and family.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Seven-

Two-Bit near-drags you across the yard and up to the kitchen door. Bernadine is there. She curses you all the way through the house to the couch.

"Goddamnit, Terry," she keeps saying.

As soon as you're down, she thinks of an errand for Two-Bit.

"Go get me a towel. Get it wet," she says. When he's gone, she says to you, "So what really happened?"

"What do you mean? I got jumped in an alley like when we was kids and those twerps from the South side would…"

"No, I mean after Korea. You didn't do no year in Leavenworth for pushing an officer down."

"Well, I was drunk and on-duty when I did it."

"Don't bullshit me, Terry. Who did I just let into my house with my kids?"

You sit up a little straighter and it hurts. You tell her:

"I ain't no murderer or a pedophile, if that's what you mean. I'd have been doing more than a year for that. Me and that officer- we just didn't get along. He embellished the situation when we got to court is all."

"I will hit you with that towel, Terry, if that damn kid ever gets in here with it."

And suddenly, he's there. He winks at you.

"Here, ma. See, I told you she was going to be pissed."

"Desertion. I bailed out," you tell Bernadine. "I bailed out, and when they found me, I hit my commanding officer."

Two-Bit whistles.

"Shut up," Benadine tells him. "Go to the kitchen. Find me some peroxide."

"That's in the bathroom," he tells her.

"Then go to the kitchen and find me a beer," you say.

You avoid eye contact with Bernadine as she fixes you up. She concentrates hard on what she's doing- blotting at your swollen eye and cut lip, gingerly lifting your shirt to inspect your ribs. There's a couple that you're sure are broken. They kicked you good in the back, too. You'll be pissing blood for a week.

In the movies, this the kind of activity that precipitates a big romantic move on the part of the injured male. The girl, unable to fight the urge, returns his affections with tenderness. She lets him do whatever he wants, and then they sleep. Right now, all you want is the sleep part and you're going to be lucky if Bern lets you stay on the couch.

"You can't stay here." No such luck. "I don't want you here looking like that when Jackie wakes up. Two-Bit'll take you home."

"I will?" He's back again, slugging down a beer. He's grinning but he's nervous. Seeing the extent of your injuries has got his adrenalin running haywire.

You say, "Call Junior…Darry…He can come after me."

"Nah, I was just kidding," Two-Bit says. "I'll take you. Darry's got work in the morning."

Again, you wonder why Two-Bit doesn't. You mumble a thanks to Bernadine, and accept Two-Bit's arm to help yourself up.

"To be continued." Bernadine gestures between the two of you. "I want to hear the rest of the story. Just not when my kids are around."

"It's a date," you tell her.

"No, it ain't," Two-Bit says.

* * *

><p>"So, from what I gather you're a deserter, a felon, and damned-lousy in a fight." Two-Bit's voice is cheerful as he drives you the long way around towards your sister's old house. "Any other surprises you got up your sleeve?"<p>

You smile and shake your head down at your lap. You're hurting in a million ways, but mostly for your pills. Your head is throbbing. The thoughts pop in every direction and burst like bubbles before you can latch on.

"You ain't here to scam Darry and them, are you?"

Again you shake your head. You admit to him, "I don't know why I'm here."

"My ma says you never liked Big Darryl, their dad."

"Nope."

"How come? I always thought he was cool as hell."

"That's because you're a kid."

"And you're some kind of model grown-up."

"Just wait, son. Someday some suave son of bitch will sweep your little sister off her feet. You'll know the feeling when it hits you- that's there's nothing you can do."

Darryl Curtis, the elder, was not much for work. He was handsome and- you suppose- he was kind, but he couldn't keep a dollar in his pocket and could barely keep a roof over your sister's head. He was better suited to life in the country, where he was born, where there was hunting and trapping to be done and horses to be broke. In a city like Tulsa, he was a caricature. He was charming, but he wasn't good for much.

Your sister loved him. You told her once that he wasn't any good for her. She replied _about as good as you are to Maryanne, then_. That shut you up.

"What was my mom like?" Two-Bit asks. Maybe he's asked you twenty times and you just didn't hear. "What was she like before my dad?"

"Mouthy. Too smart for the likes of me."

"You mean too smart to go for the likes of you?"

"That, and too smart. When I was a kid, I guess I was afraid of smart girls. Now, I find I rather prefer them."

That puts the fear into him. He doesn't have an answer for you. He allows you to drift off with your head against the window while he drives the rest of the way in silence.

At the house, Two-Bit kills the engine and helps you up to the front porch. He holds the door while you stumble inside. You find your way to the bed that, in less than forty-eight hours, your nephews have deemed yours. You swallow your pills without water and drift into a stormy sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders and the Curtis family.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Eight-

The phone rings a hundred times. No one answers it. The sound along with a beam of sunlight jutting through the center of the curtain jars you awake. You don't know where you are at first. Your mouth is dry. Every inch of your body hurts. Your left eye won't fully open and you can't make a fist with your right hand. No way are you getting on any oil rig come Monday morning.

You aren't sure what day it is. It must be a school day because the house is quiet. But it ought to be Saturday.

You sit up in bed and let your legs fall over the side. The little bastards in the alley- they must have even stomped on your feet. Your toes are bruised. You don't remember taking your shoes off.

From a dresser across the room, your sister and brother-in-law's wedding photo smiles at you. Next to it, is the picture she took of you and the boys before you left for Korea. The little one has his thumb in his mouth. He's sitting on Sodapop's lap. He wouldn't sit on yours.

The smell of cigarette smoke makes you salivate. A floorboard creaks in the next room. The radio comes on.

You stand with some trouble, get your bearings, and go out into the front room. Ponyboy is sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading the paper and smoking.

"How come you ain't in school?" You greet him.

He looks at up at you and his eyes widen.

"Glory, Uncle Terry. Two-Bit said you got it bad."

"It ain't as bad as it looks."

"It looks pretty bad."

You wiggle your fingers for his cigarette. He hands it up to you.

"Did you get a look at them?" He asks.

"I figured it was friends of your boy, Shepard. I was following him when I got jumped."

All the old words: you haven't called it being jumped since you were much older than Ponyboy. When they came at your with bombers and guns, you started calling it something else.

"You were following Tim?" Ponyboy asks.

"I didn't like the way he talked to your brother. Do you always let the phone ring like that?"

He grins.

"It was Darry. He works Saturday mornings, but he always calls to make sure I got out of bed. I never answer. It pisses him off."

You manage to grin. Doing it re-splits your lip and it hurts. You curse and walk away from the boy, laughing and shaking your head.

"Something your old man would do," you call back to him from the kitchen.

Ponyboy has made coffee. You help yourself to it. You throw back a couple of the blues ones with it; feel the burn in your throat. For just a moment, it takes your mind away from all of the other hurts.

Again, you call to Ponyboy: "So, you don't think it was Shepard?"

"No, sir. Tim's our friend. I mean he'll fight us if he has to or if we provoke him, but he's never jumped us. Just him and Dally used to fight."

"Dally's your buddy got killed?"

"Yeah. He and Tim were buddies too."

You nod, although Ponyboy can't see you. You and Darryl, Sr. used to fight like that. Nothing like the beating you got last night. Just he'd run his mouth to the guys about your sister and you'd pop him one. He'd get you later over some dumb thing. Pony's right though: blowing off a little steam with a buddy is nothing like this.

"Well, no one tried to rob me. I still got my wallet. Can think of any other reason a bunch of punks would beat on an old man, except to rob him."

"How old are you?"

You come back into the living room. Ponyboy's put his paper down. He's holding his cigarette between him thumb and index finger, trying to look like James Dean. Cool, but not practical.

"Two years older than your mom."

"So forty-two?" He knows exactly how old she is or was. He's committed all of those important facts about her to memory. Probably read the dates on her headstone a million times, as though knowing the numbers is what keeps him connected.

It occurs to you: "Where's she buried?"

He looks down at his lap. "Calvary. Next to Grandpa and Grandma. I guess you haven't been there."

"Not since your Grandma…"

"You want me to take you?"

"Only if you want. If not, I can find it on my own."

He squints at you. "You think you can make it like that? We ain't got a car. Darry and Soda drove to work. Unless we call Two-Bit."

"Let's not," you tell him. You aren't up for it today. It's Saturday, and it sounds like Pony has some chores he's expected to do. You shake your head at him and sit down unsteadily in a chair.

"Let me see the sports when you're finished," you say to him. He isn't reading the sports. He hands it over to you. You open it up to Spring Training, and promptly fall asleep.

* * *

><p>It's after one when Sodapop comes through the door, pushing and shoving and cussing around with another boy.<p>

"Uncle Terry, this is Steve," he says without stopping on his way to the kitchen.

Steve stops and looks you over.

"Holy Christ," he says.

"What?" Soda yells from behind the refrigerator door. "You want some milk, man?"

"The hell happened to you?" Steve asks. He doesn't answer Sodapop.

"I stumbled on my way home from my evening constitutional last night." You're getting tired of explaining it.

Steve says, "Yeah, more like you stumbled into four guys with pipes and steel-toed boots."

"That too."

They fuss over you like two old women, arguing about who it might have been, complimenting you on the scars you're probably going to have. Soda asks you cleaned you up, and you tell him Bernadine.

"Two-Bit's mom is fine," Steve says. "I'd let her lick my wounds any old time…"

"How old are you?" You swat him with the paper, and change the subject. "Y'all drive here?"

"Yeah. We got his car," Soda says. "You need to go somewhere?"

"Like the emergency room?" Steve adds.

"No. I was just thinking…"

"He wants to go to the cemetery." Ponyboy is there. He had been reading on the porch, but he slipped back through the screen door almost without making a sound.

"I can believe that," Steve says, still cringing when he looks at you.

"No, to see Mom and Dad."

Sodapop and Steve both nod and look down at their shoes. Steve digs in the pocket of his jeans. He produces his keys and hands them to Soda.

"You can take my car," he says. "I'd prefer to just stay here."

Soda nods. He offers you his hand and pulls you up out of the chair. It feels like being beaten up all over again. You hold your breath to keep from whimpering.

"You coming, Pony?" Soda says.

Ponyboy looks back and forth between you and Steve, and then nods. He's out of the door before either you or his brother. Before you're even gone, Steve has stretched out on the couch and taken up the sports section.


	9. Chapter 9

SE Hinton owns the Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Nine-

The car is pristine. It's a 1948 Ford Super Deluxe, but when the engine roars to life you can tell that the original has been swapped out for something with a little more pull.

"Steve doesn't go to the cemetery," Soda explains, although you didn't ask. "His mom's there. He doesn't like to go there because it just gets him mad at his old man."

"His old man kill her, or what?" You ask, and then regret saying it.

"Might as well have," Soda says, but doesn't elaborate. Ponyboy doesn't offer you any kind of wisdom. You let it go.

Soda drives a little too fast, but Steve's car is one smooth ride. You let your head tilt back and close your eyes.

"Jeez, Uncle Terry, you're sure sleeping a lot," Ponyboy says from the backseat. "Maybe you should try to stay awake. Maybe they kicked you in the head."

"Maybe?" You mumble and smile without opening your eyes.

Soda is driving towards The Ribbon for no reason. You can feel the bump when the tires hit the bridge and hear the sound of traffic below you on the expressway.

You wake up when the car bounces on the driveway into the cemetery. Soda isn't used to being made to drive this slowly. He drums his fingers on the wheel and fiddles with the radio. Ponyboy leans forward in the back seat as if he's expecting to see something he's never seen before.

Perhaps he will. The closer you get to your sister's grave, the more your stomach tightens. You wish you had come without the boys.

Karen and Darryl, Sr. are buried next to one another at the back of the cemetery. They aren't quite in the potter's field, but they aren't packed away in some fancy mausoleum either. Their stones are plain and close to the ground. Someone has placed a wreath of plastic flowers between then. Your sister always hated plastic flowers.

"Mom'd hate those flowers," Soda says as he gets out of the car. You wonder who put them there, if not the boys.

You use the open passenger door to pull you into an upright position. You can't shake the feeling that your sister can see you somehow, and it makes you feel like an idiot.

Just as Darry had described, Karen Connelly Curtis passed away two days after her beloved husband Darryl Curtis, Sr.

Ponyboy sits down in the grass, cross-legged, in front of his father's head stone.

You feel obligated to say something uplifting.

"Your old man- he knew how to hunt some birds."

Ponyboy nods.

"They were at the Starlite," Soda says. "He wanted to take her somewhere special for New Years. He was teasing her all week- kept saying he wanted to show her off."

He stops and looks at you. He's waiting. He knows you want to say something about his old man: ask how much he'd had to drink, ask if he'd put a few away before they were even out the door.

You shift on your feet.

"Your ma loved dancing," you tell the boys instead. "Our parents didn't believe in it. Any of that stuff- drinking, dancing, playing cards. I don't know where she learned, but when she found your dad, it's like she lit right up."

That's all you can say. It's the God's honest truth. Karen loved Darryl. She followed him to the grave, but you guess she had a good time doing it. All this time, you've let yourself feel so sanctimonious for hating him, but where has is gotten you?

"You don't look so good, Uncle Terry," Ponyboy says.

"So you keep telling me. Thanks, kid."

He ducks his head down so you take a step towards him and ruffle his hair to let him know you're kidding.

You admit to them, "I don't know how I'm going to get on that rig come Monday."

"There's always jobs on the rigs," Soda tells you. "Darry picks one up now and again when we need the extra money. He just walks away once we're flush, and he always finds another one when we need it."

Thinking of the boys needing money that bad makes you feel even more ill.

"Come on," You tell them. "Take me home and put me to bed. If I quit screwing around and rest up, maybe I'll feel better when the time comes."

* * *

><p>You're back at the house and your head is aching for a drink. You took one of your pills and left the rest of the bottle in your shaving bag in the bathroom. That way you'll have to get up out of bed to get more. You hope that the pain in your ribs will be enough to keep you in bed where you belong.<p>

You can't get on an oil rig all bleary-eyed and stoned, and you can't help the boys out unless you can get on that rig come Monday.

* * *

><p>You sleep through till the morning. The smell of eggs and the sound of cursing wake you up. You recognize the voice. You can't wrap your head around it at first. It shouldn't be here. <em>He<em> shouldn't be here. You told him to stay away.

He didn't listen. That goddamned Shepard kid is out in the front room talking retribution while your nephew makes eggs and coffee in the kitchen. Chalk it up to the pain that is searing through nearly every inch of your body, but- for once- you keep quiet and listen instead of charging in on them and telling Shepard to hit the road.

"It's way out of line," he's saying. "They're beating up old men now?"

"I'm sure they didn't know he was an old man," Darry replies.

You roll your eyes at being called an old man.

"Whatever. One of them and two of ours dying didn't make a goddamned bit of difference to them. They're still floating around on our side of town looking for Cain to raise."

"Maybe they were looking for you," Darry says. You smile. Count on Darry to come up with the most logical conclusion. "Maybe they followed you over here, and confused the two of you in the dark."

Tim snorts, most likely at the idea of being mistaken for the likes of you. His indignation takes a little bit of the sting out of his inability to heed your warning.

You pull yourself up to a sitting position. The boys in the kitchen fall silent when they hear the bed creak.

"Uncle Terry?" Darry calls.

"Yeah, son."

"You need a hand?"

"Yeah, I could use a hand. Send your buddy in so's you don't have to leave them eggs."

A moment of silence, and then footsteps on the floor.

Tim appears in the doorway.

"I could've tended the eggs," he says.

"I doubt it. I find it hard to believe your mama leaves you alone to wipe your own ass."

"I do alright on my own," he says, annoyed. He reaches an arm out to you anyway, and stands firm as you pull yourself up with his weight.

"You've conquered ass-wiping then, have you? Congratulations. To me, you still got the look of a little boy thinking he knows what works in a man's world."

Tim grins. You notice he hasn't withdrawn his arm. That, to you, is the sure sign he's still a kid deep down, somewhere. A grown man would've let you go and belted you by now.

"And you look like a man who has lost his best friend," Tim says. "You run out of dope, old man?"

"I got plenty."

No use trying to hide it. He is, no doubt, a kid who recognizes dope-sickness in the adults around him. Maybe he's had to shake it off a few times himself. A thought occurs to you.

You tell him: "I got more than I can use, truth be told. You know anyone who might need some?"

"You want me to fence your pills?"

"I'm a little short on cash right now. You strike me as someone who might have connections. If I can't get rid of you, I might as well get to know you as a business man."

Tim shakes his head and laughs. He pulls his cigarette down from behind his ear and twiddles it back and forth between his fingers. He's trying to gauge your eyes, the tics in your face.

He turns away, sets the cigarette between his lips and the boyish uncertainty disappears.

"What do you got, old man?"


	10. Chapter 10

SE Hinton owns it.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Ten-

Tim Shepard makes quick work of your valium and amphetamines. He's back on the corner waiting for you by midday. He takes his cut- that's for sure, but he can't hide the concern in his dark eyes when he asks:

"You hold a couple back? To kick? It's easier to come down slow. They might not notice it that way."

You nod. You kept two of the blues for yourself and cut them in half. Half the amount to go to sleep on for the next four nights. You're dreading it already.

"I'll be alright," you tell him.

"No coffee after 2 p.m. now," he says and winks. "That shit'll keep a guy your age up all night."

"You're a fountain of wisdom."

"Yeah, well, my ma's old man says it's best to keep busy when you're coming down. Near as I can tell, his answer to that is to go out cattin' around."

"Maybe I'll try that."

"Good luck, old man. You still look like you been through the wringer."

He leaves you on the corner. He saunters off towards his end of town. You doubt he's headed for home.

* * *

><p>Sunday was always the day of rest in your parent's house, but there is no day of rest in the Army, and you haven't known it as such in a long time. The need to be mindlessly busy overcomes you. You tell Darry you're going to wash some clothes. He offers you their washing machine, just like you knew he would, and you tell him you need a walk. There's a Laundromat three blocks away. You'll pick up some hamburger and beer on your way back.<p>

The big single-pane window in the front of the Laundromat gives a clear view of everyone inside. The only people you see are Bernadine Mathews and some guy orbiting her like a moth around a flame. She's folding clothes with a cigarette between her lips and letting him do most of the talking.

You got to the door and stand just inside.

The guy trying to chat up Bernadine looks bad, although you can't be looking much better. His clothes, his week-old beard, his hair all say drunk. You can't smell him from where you're standing, but you don't need to. The same smell was oozing out of your own pores two days ago.

Bernadine looks like she's doing just fine with him. He's calling her "sweet babe" and ducking and diving like a fighter when he talks to her- like he's expecting her to throw a punch.

He's grinning, and she's shaking her head.

"You gonna call your mama?" He asks. "Have her run me off?"

"Shit, my mama's eighty pounds soaking wet, John. I think you could take her."

He gets serious, then. A moment of lucidity, as they call it, overcomes him.

"How is your ma? Hold old is she now?"

"She's good. Just turned 75, and still as mean as a barrel of snakes."

They go on like this for a while. He flirts and teases, and Bernadine replies but never initiates anything. She keeps her eyes down.

You let the door slip closed and the drunk sees you standing there. His demeanor changes. He gets a look on him like a kicked dog, but one who might still bite.

"Who's this- your boyfriend?"

Bernadine looks up to see you and widens her eyes in irritation.

"He goddamn wishes."

John says, "Why you got to have such a dirty mouth, pretty girl?"

"I keep asking her the same thing," You say and start to make your way towards them.

Bernadine says, "Yes, please join us, Terry."

The drunk crouches, but offers you his hand. You shake it.

"Korea?" He asks. Christ knows how he knows that.

"And North Africa. All over hell. You?"

"No, sir. I was always too afraid. My daddy's so ashamed of me…" His voice trails off and his eyes follow. "I miss my daddy so much, but I know…I know he's looking down on me and he's ashamed…"

"My daddy never gave a damn either way what I did," you tell him. "I don't know which is worse."

"It's worse to be a shame to your daddy." He's drunk so he's got to be in the right. Won't have it any other way. "If he was here, my daddy wouldn't even speak to me."

"He would, John," Bernadine interjects. It's a mistake. I'd have thought she'd known better. A drunk's always got to be right about his own self-pity.

"How the hell would you know? My daddy was a good man. He was a better man than any that's around today. Where's your old man? I bet he don't take care of you like my daddy did us."

_And a lot of good it did_ you think to yourself. You exchange glances with Bernadine.

"How's about a cup of coffee?" You say. With all the purpose in the world, you take out your wallet and let him get a good peek at the bills. If there's one thing a drunk loves more than his self-pity, it's someone else's money.

You hand a couple of dollars to Bernadine.

"Can you toss my clothes in for me, sweetheart? Me and John's got lots to talk about. I want to hear more about his saintly daddy."

John glares. He's not so lit that he can't sense sarcasm, but he knows he can't fight your off either.

Bernadine takes the bills. You clap John on the back and get him headed towards the door.

"So, how do you know Bernadine?" You ask him.

"That her name?"

You can't help but smile. She's just a face to him. He probably sees her plenty. Maybe now and then she's good for a handout. Today, he was cruising the Laundromat looking for lone women who would give him some change in exchange for his leaving them alone.

"Listen, fella," he says. "How about you and me share a bottle since you're flush."

"I got to get back."

"She ain't all that into you."

"But she does have my clothes."

He accepts your logic.

"Can you spot me then?"

You take out your wallet again and give him a couple of dollars.

"Get yourself something to eat, will you?" You tell him, knowing full-well that it's the furthest thing from your mind.

"God bless you, soldier," he says.

"I ain't a soldier anyway," you say, but it's lost on him. His mind is already on the next drink.

* * *

><p>Back at the Laundromat, you mind Benadine sitting on the counter. She's swinging her legs like a little girl and smoking.<p>

"Wasn't sure you were coming back," she says. "Since you found a new friend and all."

"I got plenty of those friends already."

She gets to the point of it: "How long were you going to goddamned stand there and let him give me shit?"

She's rattled. You didn't see it until now, but her mouth is set hard and she's avoiding your eyes.

"He's harmless," she tells you. "I just like to avoid it if I can. I've heard it all before. He's harmless. I can't believe how shook up it gets me. That turn-on-a-dime shit. He acts all put-upon, and then all mad. You never can tell what's going to send him over the edge."

She isn't talking about John anymore. You aren't sure who she's talking about: maybe Two-Bit's father, maybe the next guy, maybe all of them.

"You want to get some coffee, Bern?"

"Now?"

"Or later. How long them clothes got?"

She grins and rolls her eyes. "Shit, I got clothes to last all day."

"How about I get some coffee and bring it back then?"

She thinks for a beat before she says it. She shakes her head and tells you: "No, no coffee. Just stay here for a while, Terry. Just sit down and talk to me."


	11. Chapter 11

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Eleven-

You aren't used to being anyone's knight in shining armor. You tell Bernadine as much, and she laughs at you.

"It wasn't quite that dramatic, Terry. You bought the son of a bitch a bottle, am I right? You didn't impale him on a pole outside as a warning to the other drunks, did you?"

"Couldn't find a pole," you say, and she laughs again. She's loosening up, laughing more easily.

"I should have jumped in earlier, Bern. I'm sorry."

"Men don't get it- what it's like to be intimidated by other men. Y'all just fight it out. You don't know what it feels like to know you can't fight someone off."

"I might know what it feels like now," you tell her. You aren't ready for a conversation that entails Bernadine recalling a time when she had to fight and couldn't. You dance your way over to another subject.

She complies. Most likely, it pisses her off on some level- that you're too chicken to acknowledge what women take from men, but she's used to it. She tells you:

"Keith thinks it was those kids from across the river, the ones who rolled you."

She says "rolled" like she assumes you were crocked. Unsuspecting citizens get jumped. Drunks get rolled.

"Darry says they had me confused for someone else in the dark."

"Who?"

"That Shepard kid."

Bernadine smirks. "Well, then it was just as likely it was his own gang then. Christ, have you met that little bastard? And I thought my son was a punk."

"Your son seems like a good boy."

"He's a good-natured boy. There's a difference."

The look on her face says she doesn't love him any less for it.

"To be honest, I don't much care," you tell her. "I got beat up walking around after dark. It happens. It's over. I'm not seventeen anymore. I ain't looking to start a war over it."

"Amen. The boys sure are, though."

"Any excuse. They're just running off energy. Christ, I used to have energy like that, but not no more."

Bernadine stubs her cigarette out in the sink and pushes it down the drain. As if she has some kind of psychic connection, she intuits that her dryer is about to quit. She hops down from the counter as the buzzer sounds.

"You think you got energy to work on an oil rig then?"

"I got to do something. Better that then wasting my time waiting around in an alley to fight for my honor."

She nods. You watch the muscles in her arms twitch as she pulls her clothes out of the dryer and into a cart. She pushes a stray lock of red hair behind her ear and gives the cart a shove towards the folding table.

Watching her makes you think maybe you have the energy for more than just working on an oil rig.

"What are you doing tonight, Bern? You want to have dinner?"

"I knew that was coming."

"And?" Your stomach flips like you're a teenager or something.

"Dinner. Early. I can't trust goddamned Keith to watch my girl, and she has school tomorrow."

You nod. "An early dinner then. I'll even change my clothes."

"Well, there is a God, isn't there," she says. She nods towards a washer that's slowing from a spin to an easy turn. "That one's yours. You're on your own with the dryer."

* * *

><p>"Uncle Terry, your <em>woman<em> called."

Sodapop is delighted to be the bearer of the news. He's sitting on the arm of the couch where he could see you coming across the yard.

"What woman? I ain't got any women. Did she leave a number?"

"She said she'd call back. Said it was long distance. Are you married or something?"

"I just said I didn't have any women, didn't I?"

It's Maryanne. You can feel it. It's a bad feeling, now that you've asked Bernadine out. It feels like cheating already because you want to hear Maryanne's voice so bad, when just five minutes ago all you could think about was if Bern was going to let you kiss her goodnight.

"You got an iron?" You ask Sodapop.

"Yes, sir."

You carry your clothes to the back bedroom. On the way, you pass Two-Bit and Darry playing cards at the kitchen table. Your old man would roll over in his grave to know his grandson was playing cards on a Sunday. Thought of it makes you smile.

The phone rings, and your smile fades. Soda rushes to answer it. You get a feeling most of the calls around here are for him.

"Uncle Terry!"

"Christ," You mumble and your laundry down on the counter. You go to the next room and take the receiver from your nephew. He backs off, but not too much.

"This is Terry," You say.

"Terry, it's been a long time." Her voice is still the same, maybe a little weathered from the cigarettes.

"Yeah, it has. The lady…the maid said you were in Chicago."

A slight laugh. "At the moment, I'm in Denver, but yes…listen, Terry, I can't call you again so please listen just listen to me."

You can feel it. You don't have to hear the words. You remember all too well how it felt in 1952- to be railroaded the way you were. Maryanne's kind of people always think they're the ones who get to do the talking.

_Son, stay away from my daughter. _

And then: _Son, I asked you nicely, and now I'm going to tell you. This is how it's going to be…_

And how it would be meant reenlisting in the Army rather than taking a bullet in your gut in the alley behind a sugar beet plant. Maryanne's father would rather kill you than have you romancing his daughter. He wasn't going to do it himself, mind you. He had a guy for that- a guy who would pin you against a brick wall with his arm against your throat. In his other hand, he pointed that .38. It was a big gun for such a little job.

Maryanne was so angry at you for reenlisting. At the time, she didn't have a clue what made you do it. She must know now, though, or she wouldn't be calling.

"Terry, you shouldn't have come to the house. Did you have some kind of deal with my father? Nell called me. She said when she told him you called he turned fifty shades of red. He said…well, I don't know what he said…but she called because she felt sure he was going to do something."

"Yeah," you say. Not Tim Shepard or people after Tim Shepard. It was Maryanne's father's people who jumped you in the alley, and they probably meant to kill you.

"Are you alright, Terry?" She asks in spite of herself. "He did do something, didn't he? He already…"

"I'm alright, Maryanne. It's alright. You have a nice life, doll."

You hand up the phone. Without you noticing, they've all come into the room: your three nephews and Two-Bit. They're all watching you like you're better than whatever's on TV. Ponyboy's eyes are wide. Darry is frowning.

"Did she break up with you?" Soda asks. "That's rough, Uncle Terry."

"I broke up with her. About fifteen years ago. She was just calling to twist the knife, I guess. She's that kind of girl."

She isn't really. She's just kind of clueless, you figure. The bad part is, she's willfully clueless, and she'll choose to remain that way.

All around you, the boys duck their heads. _Women_, they're all thinking. You look at Two-Bit and figure you'll twist the knife a little yourself.

"It's alright. Seems I'm on the rebound. You said you had an iron, Sodapop? I got me a date to get ready for."


	12. Chapter 12

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders and Two-Bit's mom.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Twelve-

At five o'clock, you sit yourself down on Bernadine's front step and light a cigarette. You figure the smell of smoke will draw her out. There's noise behind the closed door. Two-Bit has returned ahead of you, and he and the little girl are fighting. Their mom is telling them to knock it off.

Two-Bit comes out first. He barrels through the door, whistling, and steps lightly around you on the step as if he knew you were there all along.

"You going to need a chaperone? You and her?" He asks, turning on his heels and walking away from you backwards towards the sidewalk. "'Cause I got some things need tending to. I won't be out late, though, so don't get comfy."

You give him the finger. He raises his eyebrows, surprised by such a gesture from an adult. He chuckles- he isn't threatened by you- and turns away from you to walk on down the street.

The screen creaks behind you. Bernadine is standing there, smirking down at you.

"Did you just flip off my son?"

"Yeah, what of it? I don't like how he talks to you."

She rolls her eyes, comes through the door, and reaches for your cigarette. You give it up to her. Instead of sitting down, she leans against the railing. She's agitated from her kids and looking for a fight. She hasn't decided yet if you're worth fighting with.

"Tell me something, Terry…"

"You tell me something first. That's why I came. I told you I want to hear the story from you about Karen and Darryl."

She shakes her head.

"You first. They're dead. They ain't going to cause anyone any harm. What you got to tell me though- you don't do no year in Leavenworth for popping an officer and muddying up his uniform, Terry."

"True. It was probably that I kept hitting him once he was down that I got the time."

"How bad?"

The court-appointed lawyer never did tell you. You only know that the guy didn't die or remain in a coma because they reduced your sentence. You had been prepared to be in prison for the long haul.

"Bad, I guess. I was drunk. He was pestering me about where I got it. I was drunk."

She nods. Finally, she sits down.

"So was Darryl," she says. "That's what you wanted to know, right?

"Was it a regular thing with him?"

"It was getting to be."

You nod and stare straight ahead. You had Darryl Senior pegged for a fellow drunk the first time you met him. He wasn't drinking then, when he swept your sister off her feet in high school, but he had all the makings of an addict.

You take the cigarette back from Bernadine, take the final drag, and pitch the butt into the yard. You slap your hands down on your thighs and stand up, holding your hand out to her.

"Let's go," you say.

"Go where?"

"I don't know. Let's just go. I can't sit still. Let's just tool around town like the kids do. Listen to music and talk shit."

"And wind up in the back seat when the sun goes down? We're forty-something years old. That doesn't solve things anymore."

"Never did in the first place, but it'll make it all go away for a while."

Bernadine shakes her head, and gestures back at the door.

"My girl's inside."

"Your boy said he was coming back."

"You know how that goes. Terry…"

"Then no hijinks in the back seat. If that's how you want it, Bern. Just come with me for a while. If I'm alone, I'll get up to no good."

She cocks her head to one side. She looks like her son when she does it, or he looks like her. She makes a little face and then turns back to the door.

She yells in at her daughter: "I'll be right back, honey. I'm going for a ride."

You had to ask Darry if you could borrow the truck for evening. You think he let you do it just to get a rise out of Two-Bit.

You follow Bernadine to the end of the walk and open the passenger door for her.

"So, now what?" She asks you when you're down the street a couple of blocks. "You know about your sister and Darryl and I know about your doing time. Now what?"

"I know who beat me up. I solved that little mystery."

"Do tell."

You tell her. She remembers Maryanne and doesn't think much of her. You can tell by the way she rolls her eyes.

"I didn't know that's why you took off. Goddamn, Karen hit the roof when you reenlisted. She was over at my place hollering. What's-His-Name and I were still together then. He was just coming off a drunk- all hung over and pissy. Kept telling to Karen to shut up. I'll be damned if she didn't nearly get into it with him."

She stops herself and stares out the window for a bit, thinking. It's scary to watch her. You take quick glances out of the corner of your eye, and you could swear she's mulling over whether or not to bail out of the car.

She says: "I don't want another drunk, Terry."

"It's just dinner, Bern. You said so yourself."

"You're not sticking around then? I guess you shouldn't, if Maryanne's old man is still after your ass."

"I'm going out on a rig tomorrow morning," you assure her. "I should be fine so long as I stay on my own side of town. Should've stayed on my own side to begin with."

"So, you _are_ sticking around?"

Her voice is hopeful, like the look in your nephew's eyes when they look at you. They get a little nervous every time you go out the door. It's suffocating to be so needed, and it makes you want to run. Or drink. Or black out.

"I'm too old for the Army," You tell her. "Too old for this war."

"You could hop a train. Bum around a little. There's oil rigs in Texas."

"Off-shore. I never did like the open water."

"You could join the circus."

"The freak show, maybe, the way I'm looking these days."

"Can you eat fire? Pound nails through your nose?"

You shake your head.

"Fuck it. I guess the circus is out then," she says.

"If it's excitement I'm looking for, I might as well just stay here. I am, after all, a wanted-man."

"You're right about that," Bernadine says. She lays her hand against your cheek for just a second, and then leans forward to turn the radio on. It's some song you've never heard before. It's soft and come-hithery, and it gets you hoping that she'll lay her head against your shoulder while you drive.

Instead, Bernadine turns her back to the door and watches you with her arms folded across her chest. She isn't ready to be touched, but at least she's smiling.

* * *

><p>an: For me, this is an ending. I've had the character of Uncle Terry in my head for a long time, so he might reoccur in other stories. I get the feeling he's sticking around, but that he hasn't dealt with all of his demons yet.


End file.
